Maratin had never wanted war, and he was even less eager to witness rivers of blood. Yet he had no choice but to personally set the conflict in motion.
Beyond that, he felt a measure of guilt—toward himself, toward his friends, and toward France.
But when his career foundered, his poetry flourished; when a nation suffered, its poets prospered. During this time, Maratin composed a series of Romantic laments.
In truth, he rather liked Vienna. Its artistic and humanistic spirit was richer and purer than that of Paris at the time.
Maratin could hardly bear to let the flames of war devour the city, but he could not betray his homeland, either. He could only hope that the Emperor of the Austrian Empire would not stubbornly insist on having his own way.
Hofburg Palace, Hall of Mirrors.
Ferdinand I sat on the throne, swinging his two short legs. He did not much care for the guests before him.
Still, as emperor, Ferdinand I had no choice but to receive the two foreign ambassadors in person. Viscount Stratford and Maratin finally came face-to-face with the supposedly feeble-minded emperor.
Before arriving, Viscount Stratford had already decided to imitate those famous envoys of history and give Austria's foolish emperor a good, humiliating trick.
But when he actually entered the Hall of Mirrors and looked at the figure seated high above him, his heart began to race and his throat tightened despite himself.
No matter how comical Ferdinand I looked, Viscount Stratford could not bring himself to laugh. He did not even dare meet the emperor's eyes. All he wanted was to finish his task and get out of there as quickly as possible.
Viscount Stratford was not some sheltered fool. He had met the rulers of the German states, the Sultan of the